


Some More

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-21
Updated: 2008-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not good with small babies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some More

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Barely_bean.

John's not good with small babies. He'll gladly spend time with little Tanan on the days when Teyla's off-world, searching for a way to bring the rest of her family back to her and her son—whenever Rodney glances over at him on those long afternoons, John's eyes are smiling, his mouth soft—but there's always a tension to the way he holds the child, an awkwardness in the way he cradles the curve of Tanan's small head. It telegraphs John's fears—that he'll hurt him, drop him, mess the child up before he's old enough to walk—and sometimes Rodney will pluck Tanan from John's arms and walk him up and down the lab, or thrust him into Ronon's waiting hands, just so he doesn't have to look at that awful set of John's shoulders any more.

But let John loose with some older kids—with the gaggle of Cemerian children who accompany their parents to the trade negotiations on Atlantis—and he's someone entirely different. He instructs them in the wonders of touch football on the wide, open space near the foot of the north-western tower, his laughter and their childish shouts whipped away by the spring breeze; introduces them to the wonders of mac and cheese in the mess hall at lunch time, a small smile on his face as he watches Glena rub pasta into her brother's hair and does nothing to stop them; tells them stories as bribes for them to settle down for their afternoon nap, muddled retellings of horror movies and John Wayne epics that are greeted by the children as comedies.

On the last day, when Sam and Teyla are hashing out the finer details of the quantities of grain the Cemerians are willing to trade, Ronon sitting in on the negotiations to provide information on the finer points of Cemerian culture, John commandeers a puddlejumper, and Rodney, and eleven energetic children. Rodney protests with enough volume that at least two of the kids stare at him with snot-nosed awe; one of the littlest, daughter of the broad, red-faced Cemerian dynast, seems to find it reassuring, and clambers into his lap shortly after they take off the mainland. He grumbles at that, knowing it's expected of him; but the little girl reminds him of a darker version of Maddy, and after a little while he rests his hand awkwardly, carefully, against her soft hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John grinning at him, and he feels his chin go up as he pretends not to notice.

The capacity of the puddle jumpers can seem somewhat limited when you're trapped in them for a couple of days; but when they get to the mainland, Rodney finds that they're apparently big enough for John to stash away the two of them; eleven children; three large picnic baskets, cajoled from the mess staff with John's most amiable grins; sports equipment; camping gear; and fifteen water guns which, from the style of their manufacture, meant that Rodney was going to have to bitch at Zelenka again about wasting his lab time on frivolous projects.

"This is absolutely one of the most ridiculous things you have ever subjected me to," Rodney says, stripping off his jacket because the day is warm and John is making him lug boxes over to the middle of the clearing, a natural dip in the short grass that John's identified as the perfect place for a campfire. "I'm absolutely not qualified to be a caregiver, I have many many degrees on the walls of my room which testify to the fact that I am a _scientist_, and I am a scientist who could be back in the labs right now, working on those power distribution simulations, rather than—"

"Rodney," John cuts him off. It's sunny out, but for once, John's not wearing his sunglasses; the corners of his eyes crinkle up when he squints over at Rodney. "You don't need a degree to be good with kids, okay?"

Rodney _hmmpfhs_. "I didn't say that I wasn't _g_—"

"You just have to want it," John says shortly. He's rummaging through one of the packs while he speaks, not looking at Rodney; Rodney's hands twist inside his pockets, the urge to use a quantum mirror to find a universe where Patrick Sheppard's still alive so that he can punch him in the mouth, just once, stronger than ever. But when John re-emerges, the expression on his face is good-humoured, and his mouth quirks up when he calls the kids over to them. "Hey, guys," he says. "You have anything on Cemer called a Super Soaker? No? This is going to be an education."

Later, when they're all dripping wet, lying on the soft grass while the sun dries them off, Rodney argues vehemently around a mouthful of roast chicken sandwich that there is no way twelve against one can be counted a fair fight. It's unfair, it's unsporting, there's quite possibly a section of the Human Rights' Convention which mentions it—but John's not buying it. "Eleven _kids_, Rodney," he drawls sleepily, his eyes closed and his lashes smears of graphite on his cheeks.

"Yes, and you had two guns!" Rodney points out indignantly. "_Two_! That is blatantly weighting the competition against—"

"Against the guy with a PhD in mechanical engineering? McKay, you're slipping." John slits open one eye and looks up at him. There's good humour written in the lines of his face, and not for the first time in public, Rodney wants to bend down and chase the contours of John's contentment with his mouth, find out the way John's skin tastes at the moments when his joy is in high relief.

He starts to lean in, unconsciously, but John quirks an eyebrow and sits up and murmurs, "Not in front of the kids, McKay." It's not an admonishment as such, though, not a rejection; it's just a promise of _later_, a promise of _more_.

That evening, when they're sprawled out under the purpling sky, watching the fire send up sparks that flicker like the stars in the unpredictable heavens, John helps the kids make s'mores, smiling and offering encouragement as they mash together chocolate and marshmallows and crackers. His big hands bracket their smaller ones, guiding the movements of hands that are still sometimes toddler-clumsy, making sure that they don't burn their mouths with the hot, sugary mess.

Rodney watches John lick chocolate from his fingers while he makes his own. He rolls his eyes at the knowing, amused glance John shoots him from beneath his bangs; John says he never sees things like this coming, but it's not like he ever needs special help finding them on his own. While Rodney chews, he thinks of all the ways he'll exact payment from John for a day like this once they're back in the city: Making John clear up the mess some of the little hellions had made in his second-favourite lab. Demanding John's coffee ration for a week, the good stuff, not the watery crap they serve in the mess. Licking the taste of sweetness from John's mouth in the dark of their bedroom, John spread out under him, his eyes wide and his breath hitching at the pure, unexpected pleasure of this, of them, a sugar-rush that made Rodney gasp every time, always wanting more.


End file.
